City of Spies (17 page)

The acting job of her life now lay ahead of her. She needed to seem not only calm, but frivolous. Happy. As if she'd never seen what she had seen. For a little while, she could not know what she knew.

So Pagan took everything she'd seen in the basement and locked it all up in the little box in the back of her brain. She kept her memories of the night of the car accident, when Daddy and Ava had been killed, in the same place. Sometimes traumatic moments escaped. But if she didn't keep them prisoner most of the time, they would run riot and take over everything.

She turned off the light and stepped through the door, turning swiftly to use the hairpins to relock it behind her. Her hands were shockingly steady. In less than half the time it had taken her to unlock, she'd turned it back with a quiet
thunk
.

Up the stairs again, cautiously, taking deep, tranquilizing breaths. She made sure her collar was straight, dusted the crumbs of dog food from her hands and pressed her lips together to smooth out whatever was left of her lipstick. As far as she knew, the Von Albrecht basement did not exist. Right now, she was a silly, privileged girl with nothing more on her mind than which song to play next on the record player.

Emma's voice said something sharply from the kitchen, which meant she was still occupied with Dieter. Hallelujah. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since she left Emma's bedroom, but it weighed on her like a lifetime.

She made it to the top of the basement stairs safely.

“I'm out of milk,” Dieter was saying.

“Get it yourself,” Emma replied.

How sweet the sound of their discord was now. It meant she was safe. She could go back up to Emma's room as if none of this had ever happened.

A door clicked behind her. The office door.

A man's voice spoke in German: “Who are you?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Von Albrecht House, Buenos
Aires
January 11, 1962

AMAGUE

Fake, or feint. A move that begins in one direction that suddenly changes direction at the last moment.

That voice.

Nasal. High-pitched with a whine to it, even when speaking the harsh consonants of German. Pagan hadn't heard that voice since she was eight, but she would have known it anywhere.

She turned to face him in one smooth move, one hand lightly on the railing. And she made herself smile, wide, right at Dr. Someone, aka Rolf Von Albrecht, aka Rudolf Von Alt, Nazi war criminal.

As soon as she saw him, she remembered. His pointed, crafty face could take on the look of a rat, or a wolf, depending on his mood. He stood an inch under six feet, skinny through the chest, with a shoulder stoop that was new to Pagan. His belly pooched out farther, too, but he wore the same glasses with heavy black frames perched over his long, disdainful nose. The thick lenses made his squinting eyes seem smaller. His thinning brown hair receded farther than she recalled, emphasizing his high, lined forehead. Deep creases on either side of his nose curved down to the flat line of his mouth.

For a man who had created so much evil, he looked harmless, almost pathetic. To anyone else, in his burgundy cardigan and stained baggy pants, he would seem like nothing more than a cranky old college professor. Only his hands, large, veined and habitually clenched, spoke of his strong will.

Dr. Someone. He'd had no plastic surgery, only eight years of aging. She was taller now than she had been when she last saw him, so he seemed smaller, shrunken in on himself. But the glare from his pale blue eyes was as sharp as ever.

“Is that...Pagan Jones?” he said, eyes flaring open in astonishment, and switched to English. “What are you doing here?”

That was the question. Fortunately, she'd prepared herself for it.

“Dr. Von Albrecht.” Pagan stepped forward, hand extended. “Didn't Emma tell you I was coming? How nice to see you again.”

The “again” was the key. He'd recognized her, so if she claimed not to know his connection to her family, her presence in his house would be too ridiculous of a coincidence. His suspicions would be triggered. Better to admit the connection up front, and then show herself to be his ally.

He didn't take her hand. He wasn't buying it. Yet. “I asked—what are you doing here?”

“Visiting.” Pagan stretched her smile to its most blinding, and empty-headed, proportions. “I'm in town shooting a movie and ran into Emma last night. She invited me over and I had to say yes. I had to know if she was related to the same Von Albrecht I remembered from when I was little.”

Von Albrecht cast a glance down the hall toward his children's voices. “You remember me?” It came out flat, disbelieving.

“Of course!” Pagan lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Mama and I had many talks about you. I know how important it was for her to help you.”

“Really.” He drew his head back like a turtle, creating a triple chin wattle. “Tell me, then, why was it so important?”

It was like doing the tango, this question and answer. But ten times more dangerous. He was the leader, the man in the dance, asking her the questions. She was the follower, trying to keep up. Except he didn't realize how her answers were quietly impelling him to dance in the direction she desired, as the woman's ability to follow the man in tango could drive him to lead a certain way.

She shrugged. “All Mama said was that the dream of our Fatherland would never die as long as men like you were around.”

She must've answered correctly, because his shoulders slumped farther, relaxing. “Your mother is a remarkable woman. How is she?”

Pagan had to stomp down on her astonishment so that she could manifest the requisite look of sadness.

Von Albrecht had no idea her mother was dead. But really, why would he? It's not like they would've stayed in touch. That would endanger them both. And a professor and physicist living in Buenos Aires with a penchant for torture had other matters to concentrate on. He wasn't the type to go see
Beach Bound Beverly
with his daughter or read the tabloid stories about the daughter of the woman who saved him. There was nuclear material to fuss with down in the basement, after all.

If he didn't know about her mother's death, he probably had no idea about her alcoholism, or the car crash where she'd killed Daddy and Ava. If she wanted him to trust her, to like her, that was just as well.

It wasn't hard to look sad. Her feeling about Mama's death were right beneath the surface. “You didn't know? She passed away when I was twelve.” No need for gory details.

His graying eyebrows drew together, more in surprise than sorrow. “That's too bad. A strong, intelligent woman, your mother. A true believer.”

“She taught me everything I know,” Pagan said, and didn't like how close to reality that statement was. Only her father's distracted kindness kept it from being completely true. She could only hope Daddy had rubbed off on her, too. “I still have the painting you gave her. Such a beautiful gift.”

“She deserved all that and more after what she did for me,” he said. “And the others.”

Pagan forced herself to remain very still.

The others?

“But what are you doing here, in the hallway?” His small eyes shot a sidelong glance down the stairs toward the basement door and then narrowed at her, suspicious. “Didn't Emma tell you I don't like to be disturbed?”

Gather your wits, Pagan. You're still in the spotlight, and it exposes every flaw.
“I was coming down from her room to tell her that I think I need to go back to the hotel.”

Yes, that was it. She needed to get out of here, before the fury she'd locked away came raging forth and got her killed. She continued. “I can feel one of my migraines coming on, so I should go lie down somewhere dark before it gets too bad. I'm sorry that I won't be joining you for dinner, after all.” She fluttered her eyelids against imaginary pain. “Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps.” His lips quirked up slightly at the corners. “I'm heartened to meet a girl of good German stock who values her Fatherland. Have you met my son, Dieter?”

Dear God, he had a glint in his eye. She knew all too well what it meant. She was “good German stock” he could breed with his son. Yuck.

“Yes,” she said, adding a happy lilt to her voice as best she could. “I've met Dieter. He's very....tall.” She couldn't quite manage a blush, but she lowered her eyes as if suddenly shy. Imagine his expression if she told him that Dieter preferred anything but “good German stock,” and that it was Von Albrecht's daughter who'd taken a liking to her.

“If I want a second sandwich, you'll damned well make me a second sandwich, you stupid bitch!” Dieter's voice echoed down the hall.

“Leave me alone!” Emma sounded as if she was crying from anger. “That's all I want—just leave me alone!”

“Dieter!”

Von Albrecht had only to raise his voice slightly for silence to fall in the kitchen. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

“Komm her,”
Von Albrecht said. “Both of you.” To Pagan, he said, “I apologize for my children.”

Pagan shook her head, but said nothing as slow footsteps clomped through the dining room toward them. Dieter came first, his tan cheeks spotted with red, then Emma, her shoulders slumped. Dieter glanced up at his father, then over at Pagan, and down at the floor. His shoulders were hunched, his hands balled into fists. He could not look his father in the eye.

“Papa?” Emma said, wiping wetness from her cheeks. “I'm so sorry if we disturbed you.”

“I will speak to you shortly, daughter,” Von Albrecht said, and Emma shut down, withdrawing a step, her lips trembling. “My son. What was that name you called your sister?”

“Name?” Dieter cleared his throat, shot a look at Pagan, then stared at his boots again. “Her name is Emma, Papa. I am sorry if I raised my voice and disturbed you.”

“Are you?” Von Albrecht raised one gray eyebrow over the top of his thick black-rimmed glasses. “To me you seem angry, at your sister, at me. Is this how a real man conducts himself?”

Dieter swallowed hard, as if trying to gulp his feelings down, and straightened. “No, Papa. I just...”

“You offer me excuses?” His father cut him off. “Is there any excuse for so much unseemly emotion, or for calling your sister, a good Aryan woman, such a terrible name?”

Pagan couldn't help noticing: it was only good Aryan women who didn't get called names. Everyone else was probably fair game.

“No,” Dieter mumbled.

“No, what?” Von Albrecht said, his voice growing harsh.

A muscle in Dieter's jaw twitched. The ever-present violence that simmered beneath his skin was still there. But for this man, he controlled it. “No, Papa, there is no excuse for such emotion or for calling a good Aryan woman like Emma such a name. Emma, I apologize.”

He didn't look at his sister when he said it. He looked only at his father.

Von Albrecht nodded slowly, pleased.

Emma shook her head and wiped angrily at her eyes. When she spoke, the words were flat, as if she'd said them many meaningless times before. “Thank you, Dieter.”

“Well done, my boy.” Von Albrecht moved forward and formally shook his son's hand. To Pagan, who had been hugged by her father every day until he died, it looked stiff and odd.

But at his father's touch, Dieter visibly relaxed. He smiled for the first time since Pagan had met him, and his square-jawed, wary face lit up. “I'm sorry, Papa. You know I want to make you proud, to be a good representative of the Fatherland.”

“And so you are, my boy.” Von Albrecht's washed-out eyes narrowed in his own closemouthed version of a smile. “You know that to me you are indispensable.”

Dieter's eyes were shining with a fanatical gleam. “Thank you, Papa. I'll go get the pot roast out of the oven for dinner.”

As Dieter clomped down the hall, Von Albrecht narrowed his squinty eyes at his daughter. “Emma, my dear, you must understand that your brother is under considerable strain. He is the man of the house while I am busy with my research. And I ask a lot of him.”

“Yes, Papa,” Emma said dully.

Emma made dinner, and cleaned the house, and shopped for groceries, while Dieter started fights with people he didn't like. Emma was more of the adult in the house than either of these men, as far as Pagan was concerned. She wanted to blurt that out to this disgusting creature beside her, wanted to grab Emma's hand and take her far from this terrible house.

But none of that could happen. Not yet, anyway. She had to get out of there, and soon, before she blew her cover and started screaming.

“Dinnertime, is it not?” Von Albrecht's narrow jowls shook as he gave Pagan a tight smile. “Shall we?”

“I'm so sorry,” Pagan said, squinting up at Emma as if through a haze of pain. “But as I told your father, I feel a migraine coming on, so I'd better head back to the hotel.”

“Oh, no, I'm so sorry!” Emma walked up to take Pagan's hands and peer with concern into her face.

“No, it's I who am sorry to miss your pot roast. But when these things come over me, I don't much feel like eating.” Pagan gave Emma a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'll go up and get my purse.”

“No, no, you stay here. I'll get it.” Emma gave her hands a squeeze and ran up the stairs.

Pagan was alone once more with Rolf Von Albrecht. He was eyeing her with much more approval now. “Emma knows nothing of our previous acquaintance, I take it,” he said. His English, aside from his accent, was perfect.

“Of course not,” Pagan said, rubbing her temple, but giving him a faint smile. “Nobody knows that now but you and me.”

“You've inherited your mother's discretion as well as her beauty,” he said. “Good.” He lifted his voice. “Dieter, come say goodbye to Fräulein Jones.”

Pagan lifted her hand, about to ask him not to bother, but stopped herself. She might as well stay in Von Albrecht's good graces, in case she ever needed to enter the house again. But she never wanted to cross this threshold again. The desire to get out of this house was growing inside her like a balloon inflating with air. Any minute now it would pop.

Dieter clomped down the hallway as his sister ran back down the stairs and handed Pagan her purse.

Emma looked with concern at Pagan's furrowed face. “Are you all right? Should we have Dieter drive you home, perhaps?”

“We can call her a cab,” Dieter interposed. Such a gentleman.

A drive with Dieter was the last thing she needed. “No, thank you. It's not far, and I find a brisk walk can sometimes stop the pain in its tracks.”

“Gets more blood to the head,” Von Albrecht said with a nauseating approximation of what a doctor would say to a patient. “Which may ease the tension.”

“Exactly.” Pagan gave them all a pained smile and faded toward the door, her escape hatch. “Thank you so much, all of you. This has been a wonderful evening.”

Emma walked with her to the door. Leaving Von Albrecht behind was like dropping a fifty-pound weight. Not much farther now and she'd be free. She couldn't wait to walk, to run, to leave the stench of this place.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
, Fräulein Jones,” Von Albrecht said. “Hope to see you again soon.”

“Yes, goodbye,” Dieter added abruptly.

Thank God, they were at the front door. Only a few steps now.

“Are you sure you don't want me to call you a cab?” Emma asked as she opened the door, her voice low. “I can understand not wanting to be around Dieter, but it's getting dark, and you're new to the city.”

“I'm quite sure,” Pagan said. Out, out, out. She needed out. “But you're so kind, and I had such a lovely time.”